


Forest For Trees

by eastofoktober



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Season 1 Re-write, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-11-08 13:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastofoktober/pseuds/eastofoktober
Summary: In which neither Jackson or Stiles grew up in Beacon Hills but they are like 100% sure there’s something strange about this town.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This chapter contains mild descriptions of a dead body.

“What do you think?” Stiles asks, turning the laptop around the room in a slow circle for Jackson to see.

 

Even though the first floor den is still a sea of boxes, Stiles had taken the morning to move some of the furniture that finally arrived at their new house into living positions. They don’t have much yet, just a couch, a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a rug, but Stiles knows that Jackson has certain opinions about interior decorating. Opinions that have led to arguments over furniture placement, color palette, and Feng shui in their tiny Manhattan apartment, and the same opinions that will lead to passive aggressive furniture shifting in their new house for at least a month.

 

“And don’t lie to me Whittemore,” Stiles continues, giving Jackson a Look, even though Jackson’s need for particular settings is more amusing than irritating most days. “I know that you’re going to change a least ten things when you get here. For sake of productivity, tell me how you really want it and you can at least cross den couch arrangement off your list.”

 

Jackson makes a face and shifts his own laptop on his end of the call. Stiles can see that’s he’s sitting on the couch in their Manhattan apartment. Flea, their grey-haired cat is sprawled across his shoulders, settled in between the top of the couch and the living room wall. Jackson’s wearing his glasses and looks ready for bed. Stiles wishes he was there with him.

 

While the plan for moving to the other side of the country had been a mutual agreement born of a cagey restless need to get out of the city and a combined desire to reconnect with a state they’d been born in, but left a long time ago, neither of them had realized how difficult getting resettled would be.

 

Northern California had been a clear option from the beginning. They had wanted open spaces, smallish town, and some land. Jackson easily got his California veterinarian license. Then came the job search for both of them. Finding a place that needed a veterinarian and a police officer had been hard. Eventually their search led them to a Dr. Alan Deaton in Beacon Hills which then led to a discovery that the Beacon Hills Police Department was in need of new officers. Unfortunately, buying a house in Beacon Hills came with a host of problems that meant Stiles would have to move them in by himself while Jackson stayed in New York to sell their apartment, take care of their cat, and finish his clinic hours.

 

They also mutually agreed that since Stiles couldn’t be on a plane without being drugged and their dogs were not the best fliers, Stiles would drive across the country. The trip across alone had been fine. Driving with two dogs for six days was exciting enough to distract Stiles from missing Jackson. But then settling into a new place by himself for a week had gotten lonely. He had never thought of Jackson and him as one of those couples who could not be apart. In fact, their jobs in New York had them so busy at one point they had needed to schedule days to spend time with each other.

 

Hell, there was a nine month gap in their relationship where Jackson was in fucking London having a crisis.

 

But Stiles finds that being in Beacon Hills, thousands of miles away from someone he loves, is vastly different than being in the same city but too busy to see each other. He misses being able to touch his husband everyday.

 

“Maybe move the couch more towards the window?” Jackson leans his chin on his fist. “I can’t really tell how big the room is.”

 

Stile props his laptop on one of the empty shelves of the built-in fireplace/bookcase on the den wall. He moves to the side of the camera, trying to figure out a way to see Jackson without obstructing Jackson’s view of the room. He settles on awkwardly leaning down from the top of his laptop.

 

“Can you see it better now?”

 

Jackson gives an absent nod. “Yeah, definitely move the couch more towards the window.”

 

Stiles walks back over to the couch and begins to shift the couch a bit, stopping every few inches to get Jackson’s opinion. Burp, their pug, follows all of his movements. After the couch is placed, Stiles cycles through the rest of the unpacked furniture for the den.

 

“Is that good enough, your Highness?” Stiles says after fifteen minutes of moving furniture. He swipes at some sweat that has settled on his forehead and looks back at his husband. “Anymore placements? Replacements? New items for our furniture list?”

 

Jackson shakes his head in amusement and pulls back from the frame of his camera. “Looks fine now. But that lamp should definitely be moved to the other side.”

 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Again? I just moved it.”

 

Jackson gives Stiles a faux apologetic look. “Sorry, babe.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You just like seeing my ass move in these jeans.”

 

“It’s a very good looking ass, in very good looking jeans.”

 

“Asshole,” Stiles scoffs with affection. He moves the lamp anyway, making sure to bend down a bit more than necessary. His ass does look good in these jeans. When he straightens back up, he turns to Jackson. “Good?”

 

“Perfect,” Jackson says with a smile.

 

Stiles picks up the laptop from the shelf and pulls on down onto the newly positioned couch. “So what are you doing to celebrate the last three days of being a husbandless city boy?” Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “If you go to a strip club, touch some bodies for me.”

 

“I thought there was a no strip club clause in the ‘Husbandless in the City Handbook’ you left me?” Jackson looks amused. “Feeling deprived?”

 

Stiles groans. “Well, there certainly aren’t any in Beacon Hills I can go to. I swear everybody can smell the newness on me.” He bends down to pick up Burp up and settles him next to him on the couch. Burp happily snuggles in. “Before I even know someone’s name, they’re like ‘oh you must be the one who moved into the old Hale place’. And then once I told, like three people my name then suddenly everyone knows my name. I miss Manhattan anonymity.”

 

“You hate Manhattan anonymity,” Jackson says with a laugh. “Everyone on our floor knew who you were within our first week of moving here. What happened to all your small town fantasies?”

 

Stiles makes a face. “That was before I knew what that actually meant. The grass is greener and all.”

 

“Well now we have actual grass,” Jackson points out like the asshole he is.

 

“Well maybe when you get here, I’ll enjoy it more,” Stiles says, letting his fingers trace over Jackson’s face even though Jackson can’t see him do it. “Just three more days.”

 

“Three more days,” Jackson repeats, his expression tired because the East Coast is three hours ahead and Stiles is pretty sure its nearly midnight there. “I should go. It’s late.” For a beat, they just stare at each other because they both hate saying goodbye. “I love you. Have a good night.”

 

“Love you too. Sleep well. Kick ass so that you can come home,” Stiles and then signs out of Skype. He rubs his fingers over the warmed silver of his wedding band and heaves a sigh. He might at as well try to get some more sleep.

 

***

 

Barely an hour after Stiles manages to get to sleep, his phone buzzes on the night table. The sound of the ringtone he has picked for work sounds through the room. Stiles groans but reaches for it anyway. Duty calls.

 

He swipes his thumb over the screen and presses it to his ear. “Stilinski.”

 

“Get your ass in gear Stilinski,” the voice of his partner, Malia comes through. “We’ve got ourselves a body in the woods. ETA at your place in ten.”

 

She hangs up before Stiles can ask for more details. He gives himself five seconds of longing for the sleep that could have been. He rests the cool screen on his phone on his forehead and closes his eyes. When the five seconds are up, he’s ready to be Deputy Stilinski.

 

Stiles fumbles for the switch on the side table lamp, then winces when the room floods with light. Barefoot and shirtless, he curses and stumbles his way around the boxes in his bedroom. He manages to dress himself in uniform without injuring himself.

 

He runs down the stairs to his office, unlocks his gun safe, and retrieves his holster. He does a quick load, a check of the safety, and attaches the whole ensemble to his belt. Burp and Grim, curled together in the den, wake up at he passes them on the way to the front door. Their gazes are questioning as Stiles pulls on his Beacon Hills Police Department jacket.

 

“Sorry guys,” he tells them. “Dad’s got to go to work. I’ll take you for a walk when it’s daylight.”

 

A honk of a horn outside his front door has him shoving his feet into his trainers and his phone in his pocket. He grabs his badge shield, his keys, his wallet on the way out the door. With one last apologetic look to his canine children, he’s tripping down the steps of his front porch toward Malia.

 

Malia gives him an amused smile as he climbs into the cruiser.

 

“Looking good, Stilinski,” she says as he buckles up.

 

She hands him one of the travel cups in the cup holder as she backs out the drive way. “I got you hot chocolate. Be alive.”

 

Stiles takes the cup. “Awww, you remembered that I don’t drink coffee.”

 

“I remember when people are being special snowflakes,” Malia says. “And I got to Beans before it closed and didn’t want to hear you bitch about how I never get you things.”

 

“Well thank you,” Stiles drawls as he takes a sip of his cup. He closes his eyes in satisfaction. “This is perfect.”

 

Malia doesn’t say anything as she concentrates on driving through the woods. There aren’t any street lights this far out in the Preserve. Though moonlight occasionally peaks through the thick canopy of branches overhead, they’re relying heavily on the car headlights to cut through the darkness.

 

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks when Malia doesn’t turn toward the main road.

 

Malia glances over at him. “The reason why we were called in is because the crime scene is basically in your back yard.”

 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I can vouch that its a very good place to commit a murder.” He looks out the window to the extremely dark woods. “Though I thought I left the murders in New York.”

 

“Well it looks like you brought some murder with you,” Malia continues. “Two joggers found half a body about an hour ago.”

 

“Do I want to know which half?”

 

Malia rolls her eyes. “We’re looking for the half with the head.”

 

As they get further into the woods, Stiles can see other flashing lights ahead. He can make out the figures of the CSI team and Sheriff Parrish. He can also see the cars of two State Troopers.

 

“Damn,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “They called in the Troopers.”

 

Malia doesn’t say anything but there is a grim set to her mouth as they get out of the car and walk over to Sheriff Parrish. He’s standing in front of a map spread out on the hood of a patrol car, directing the other members of BHPD.

 

“Stilinski,” Parrish nods at them when they get close enough. “Tate.”

 

“Hey Sheriff. Nice night for a murder,” Stiles says. Parrish’s lips quirk at that. “What have we got?”

 

“Two joggers found the lower half a body earlier tonight of a young adult caucasian female,” Parrish says, pointing to a spot marked on the map. “I’ve brought you here to help look for the other half and any evidence of anything. There might not be much to see with just flashlights but we’re trying to get some headway any way we can.” He hands them a sheet of paper with mapped out quadrants. He points to the bottom left corner. “You guys are to look here. Radio if you find anything. Channel 2.”

 

Stiles nods. “Got it.”

 

He and Malia walk over to their starting point, about a hundred meters from where Parrish has set up base. They can hear the distant murmur of other units trekking through their own quadrants.

 

“It’s a good thing we’ve got all this moonlight,” Stiles notes the full moon overhead.

 

“Yeah,” Malia says. Her eyes are scanning the left side while Stiles takes the right. “This whole place is a mess when it’s a new moon. Even with flashlights it’s a bitch to find anything.”

 

They both lapse into silence as they concentrate on trying to find anything worth noting. Stiles hears the crack of some branches a little ways ahead of them. He pauses and swings his flashlight toward the sound. His flashlights glints off of something shiny in the woods. Two rounded points of reflected light. Eyes, maybe? Stiles pushes through the underbrush towards them.

 

“Did you see that?” Stiles says to Malia.

 

“See what?” She skims over the area that Stiles is concentrated in.

 

It’s gone when Stiles swings his flashlight back over.

 

“Like eyes or something,” Stiles says walking toward where he last saw them.

 

Before he can walk any further, the crash of incoming hooves sounds through the woods. He looks back and sees a giant herd of deer lunging toward them. Both he and Malia jump back. Stiles’ foot slides on the dead leaves and before he can grab something to steady himself, he falls back.

 

“Stiles!” he hears Malia shout as his body submits to gravity.

 

His body crashes through the loose underbrush, rolling uncontrollably down a rocky slope. He loses his grip on his flashlight and it flies down the ground below. Stiles can feel every bruise pressed in his skin by the rocks and the scratches of the branches. He finally comes to a stop, landing on his back on a flat ledge.

 

He holds himself still for a moment, trying to gain his breath back. He carefully moves each of his limbs. Nothing feels broken. The air is eerily silent around him.

 

“Fuck,” Stiles breaths out as he sits up.

 

It’s dark all around him. He reaches his hand out to push himself up in his feet and immediately jerks back when something like silk slides through his fingers. Something heavy settles in the pit of his stomach.

 

He fumbles for his phone. It’s thankfully still intact, despite his fall. He slides on the flashlight function. The light immediately illuminates the silky thing Stiles had touched.

 

It’s hair, dark and tangled with leaves and sticks.

 

Stiles’ eyes follow the hair to the head it’s attached to. Glassy, hazel eyes stare back at him from a pale face. He’s found the other half to their dead victim.

 

“Fuck.”


	2. Chapter Two

With a shaky breath, Stiles pushes himself to his feet, carefully to avoid touching anymore of the body. Once he’s standing, he brushes off some of the dirt and foliage clinging to him. All his muscles protest at the movement. 

 

Stiles stares down at the victim’s decomposing body. Through the pockets of disturbed leaves, Stiles can make out the jagged edges of where she was cut in half along her torso. There’s a soft, sickly stench of decay in the air. Stiles gags, but holds back any vomit. He will not make this night even more embarrassing for himself than it already is. 

 

Stiles does a quick assessment of the area around the body. The flashlight on his phone doesn’t give him a great range, but he can make out some indentations in the leaves that might be good as some evidence. He tries to find some way back up the rocky hillside he fell down. 

 

There’s nothing the way he came and he doesn’t want to chance getting lost in the woods at night when there’s a killer on the loose. The Preserve is huge and he’s definitely off any of the trails that cut through it.

 

Stiles calls up the cliff. “Malia!”

 

His voice echoes off the trees and back to him. A faint response of something comes down to him, but it’s too far off to decipher. He cups his hands to yell again. A branch cracks somewhere nearby in the darkness. Stiles swings his phone toward the sound.

 

“Hello?” Stiles calls. There’s nothing he can see but trees. Then something growls to his left. He jerks his light toward it.

 

Red eyes stare back at him. The animal (a wolf?) stalks toward him, a growl rumbling through it’s body. Stiles stumbles back a few steps. 

 

His mind races with all the possible scenarios of how this could end. He knows he probably can’t outrun the wolf, but maybe he could have enough time to scramble up the cliff he rolled down if he threw something at it. His eyes try to find something close enough to him and large enough to do some damage if thrown. There’s nothing but leaves and branches.

 

“Look,” Stiles says, voice coming out stronger than he feels. “You don’t want to eat me.”

 

Stiles’ back hits the slope of the cliffside. There’s nowhere else for him to go. 

 

“Stiles!” a shout breaks through the night. The animal stops mid stride, looks up toward where the voice is coming from, then looks back at Stiles. With a growl that sounds like a threat, it lopes back into the woods and disappears.

 

Stiles shakes with adrenaline and a nauseas lump settles in his throat. He tells himself again that he cannot, absolutely cannot throw up at this crime scene. 

 

“Stiles!” comes Malia’s voice again from above but closer. There’s a desperate edge to her tone now. “Answer me, damn it!”

 

Stiles takes a deep breath to calm himself then cups his hands to his mouth and shouts, “I’m okay.” He looks back down at the woman’s face. “Send the team down. I found the rest of our body.”

 

***

 

By the time Malia and the rest of the team have gotten down to him—the long, safe way — Stiles has canvassed the immediate area around the body. His fall had disturbed a bit of the space, but there are some things that he notices. The body had been deliberately placed. Before Stiles had rolled into it, he can see that the body had been mostly covered by leaves and branches. 

 

“I don’t think she’s been out here that long. The decomposition isn’t bad enough for that. But I’ll leave that to the coroner to tell you definitively.” Stiles says to Parrish when he finally gets on scene. He points to the leaves, half covering her like a blanket. “It’s almost like she’s been placed here and someone tried to cover her up.”

 

“Interesting,” Parrish says. “Her other half was just dumped pretty close to the trail as if whoever did it wanted her to be found.”

 

“Think we’re working with two killers?” Stiles asks. 

 

“Possibly,” Parrish says. “Could have been a animal. Saying it’s two killers seems pretty premature.”

 

“It’s a bit King Solomon-esque,” Stiles says. Parrish quirks an eyebrow. “You know with the baby? And the suggestion to cut it in half so both woman could have the baby in order to figure out who really loved it?”

 

“Well neither of them loved her then.” With a grim smile, Parrish walks over to the CSIs processing the scene. 

 

Malia comes up behind Stiles and slips an arm around his shoulders. “You alright?”

 

Stiles shrugs. Now that most of the adrenaline of toppling down a cliff onto a dead body has worn off, he’s beginning to feel every branch and rock he hit on the way down.

 

“I’ll probably be one giant bruise in the morning but I’ll survive.”

 

“Glad to hear it. I’d hate to lose the New Kid in the first few weeks on the job.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “My great finding skills just saved us from being in the woods all night.”

 

“You being clumsy just saved us from being in the woods all night,” Malia corrects with a grin. “Good job. Except next time, don’t fall into the crime scene.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Next time I’ll be sure to prevent being attacked by herd of deer,” he says drily, picking wood splinters out of his clothing. 

 

Parrish, done talking with one of the State Troopers, signals to them with a nod and his hand. “You guys can get some rest. The CSIs and State Troopers will take it from here.” He turns to Stiles with an amused smirk. “Good work, Stilinski.”

 

“Oh my god, no one’s ever going to forget this,” Stiles groans to Malia as they make their way back up to their cruiser. 

 

Malia smirks at him. “At least you made a lasting impression.”

 

The long way back up isn’t as bad as Stiles thought it would be. They pass by the section where Stiles broke through the underbrush. 

 

“Oh wow,” Stiles says, glancing down at the lights below. “I fell pretty far.”

 

“Yeah, be grateful for that slope. Any sharper and you’d have just plummeted fifty feet. Be glad you didn’t break anything.”

 

A few minutes later, Malia’s dropping him off at his front door. The house porch lights are the only things illuminating his and Jackson’s little section of the woods. 

 

“See you when the sun comes up, New Kid,” Malia calls out the window, then pulls out of the drive before Stiles can reply. He gives her a half-hearted wave as he watches until the cruiser lights disappear into the woods. Then there is nothing but darkness and silence. 

 

Beyond the house door, Stiles can hear Grim whining as he turns his key in the lock. He maneuvers himself quickly to keep Grim from escaping out into the night, using his body to block the door.

 

“Hey, get back,” he says when Grim pushes against him. “No.”

 

He locks the door with one hand behind his back and the other gripped on Grim’s collar. Grim whines and tries again to get past him. 

 

“What’s up with you?” Stiles asks, kneeling down to pet him as Grim whimpers. “What’s wrong?”

 

Stiles startles, almost falling over, at the sound of a howl coming from outside of the house. Stiles can’t pinpoint the direction it’s coming from. It echoes eerily around the house. Stiles’ mind jerks back to the red-eyed wolf in the woods. Had it followed him home?

 

Grim jerks against him toward the door, throws his back his head and howls a returning call. 

 

“Is that a friend out there? Another dog?” Stiles asks, sitting down crossed-legged on the front hall floor wishing that Grim could speak to him. He pulls Grim close and strokes down his fur with shaky hands. The next howl outside comes long and forlorn. Grim joins in. 

 

Stiles listens, his body feeling the pulse of vocalizations from Grim. A shiver runs up his back. 

 

“I wish you could tell me what’s wrong,” Stiles says into Grim’s fur. 

 

Both howls end. Grim jerks back up toward the door, pulling harshly against Stiles. He gives two sharp barks into the sudden silence. There is nothing more.

 

Grim turns back to Stiles with pleading eyes.

 

“Buddy, it is very late. I am definitely not letting you back out there,” Stiles says. “I almost got eaten earlier tonight and I’m not letting whatever that is get you.”

 

Grim whines again but Stiles just stands and begins walking toward the back of the house where he’s put the dog beds. Realizing that Stiles isn’t going to give into letting Grim out, Grim follows. 

 

He looks out into the darkness of the backyard, nothing but a few yards of grass illuminate by the porch lights. Burp is curled up in his dog bed in corner. Next to him is Grim’s crate, empty and bedding a mess. 

 

“At least I have one good dog,” Stiles says, bending to run a hand through Burp’s fur. The pug twitches at his touch but doesn’t wake.

 

“You really know how to make a mess don’t you?” he looks down at Grim who just gives him a look of innocence. Stiles sighs. “Your other dad wouldn’t stand for this.”

 

Grim yawns, mouth wide and lies down on top of Stiles feet. 

 

“Yeah, I’m tired too,” Stiles says. He nudges Grim gently. “Come on, get in your crate.”

 

Grim ignores him. Stiles tries a few more tactics of getting the dog to move toward his crate, but nothing works. After a few minutes, Stiles heaves a sigh. It’s too late to try to deal with this. 

 

He moves his feet from underneath Grim, and begins walking back into the house. Grim follows him up the stairs to the master bedroom. Stiles strips out of his clothes and pulls on sweatpants. He wants a shower but he’s past exhausted and has moved into a hazy territory that he knows if he doesn’t go to sleep soon means he’s not getting any sleep until the next night. 

 

He washes his face, takes his meds, and brushes his teeth in the bathroom. Grim sprawls out on the floor, watching the entire time. 

 

“Voyeur,” Stiles says, through the foam in his mouth, pointing his toothbrush accusingly at Grim. Grim has no response. Stiles rinses and spits.

 

Stiles pulls back the sheets on the bed and slides in with a sigh. Grim whines at him from the floor. Stiles rolls his eyes. He’s too tired to try to herd the dog all the way back down the stairs, and he’s feeling a bit lonely anyway. 

 

“Oh alright,” Sending out an apology to Jackson, who is very against pets in the bedroom, Stiles sighs and gestures him toward the bed. Grim happily creates a space for himself on the pristine sheets of the king bed. 

 

“Just for tonight,” he tells Grim as he settles himself on the sliver of bed that’s left. “Don’t tell your other dad I let you do this, okay?” Grim noses at him and Stiles settles a hand on top of his head. “Good night.”

 

***

 

Stiles alarm goes off before he really wants it to. When he doesn’t move fast enough to turn it off, Grim licks his face.

 

“Ew,” Stiles says, pushing Grim’s snout away from him. “Get off.”

 

He swipes off the alarm, leaving behind a text notification from Jackson on his home screen. With a smile, he taps into it. 

 

It’s a very nice picture of Jackson lying in bed, Flea curled up on his bare chest. ‘Good morning, fuckface, I love you.’— The text reads.

 

He snaps a picture of Grim trying to lick his face and texts back: ‘Not the kisses I want. I love you too, asshole’.

 

Stiles knows he’s not going to get a quick response since Jackson is probably working. A pang of longing shoots through him. Damn, he really misses his husband. 

 

With a sigh, Stiles pulls on some sweat pants and hustles Grim out of the bedroom and down the stairs. He refreshes both food and water bowls for the dogs.

 

Stiles decides to leash up the dogs for a walk around the property. Burp and Grim both eagerly try to tangle him up in their leashes in their excitement to get out beyond the electronic fence he’s set up for them.

 

They have only been walking for a few minutes, barely pass the mailbox at the end of the drive, when Grim pauses and cocks his ears. He gives a low whine. Then he lets out a series of sharp barks. 

 

“What is it buddy?” Stiles asks, looking around them for any indication of what Grim is hearing and sees nothing. “What do you hear?”

 

Before Stiles can do anything about it, Grim rips the leash from Stiles’ hand and disappears into the underbrush. Stiles does not know what Grim’s running after but the dog goes from a discernible black blur to completely absent from the greenery in less than ten seconds. 

 

“Fuck.”

 

Stiles looks down at Burp who is straining to go after Grim. He ties Burp’s leash around the mailbox, knowing that Burp won’t go any further. Burp lets out a few sad barks, but he sits obediently. 

 

“I’ll come back for you Burp,” Stiles says as the dog whines pitifully behind him. “I’m sorry.” Stiles looks back and blows the dog a kiss. “If your brother was better behaved, we wouldn’t have to do it this way.”

 

He takes off toward where he can hear what he hopes is Grim crashing through the underbrush. “Grim come back here! Grim!” 

 

Stiles tries to follow the sounds of Grim running through the woods, but eventually the sounds Grim’s movements fade completely until all Stiles can hear is birds chirping, bees buzzing, and his own footsteps cracking branches and crushing leaves. 

 

“Grim!” He calls, every few feet. “Where are you, you damn dog?”

 

He’s getting further and further into the Preserve, a part of the property he is sure isn’t owned by him and Jackson. He can see a glimpse of another structure through the trees but before he can get any closer to it, a voice sounds behind him.

 

“Looking for this?”

 

Stiles jumps at the voice. “Holy shit,” Stiles says, stumbling backwards. He manages to recover his balance before falling over completely. He turns to see a very good-looking young man (teenager?) in a leather jacket. The expression on his face is extremely unwelcoming but Grim is completely docile, tail wagging and silent by his side. 

 

Stiles makes a grab for Grim’s proffered leash. “Thank you for catching him. He doesn’t usually do this but I guess he wanted to explore.” He looks down at Grim. “Bad dog.”

 

“This is private property,” the man, Stiles decides, says. “You’re trespassing.”

 

“I live here actually,” Stiles enunciates, bristling a little at the tone, pointing back toward his house, entirely invisible through the thick woods. “So I think you’re the one trespassing.” 

 

The man crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Your property ended about 200 meters back. You’re on my property now.”

 

“Then we’re neighbors. I’m Stiles,” he says, holding out a hand which just gets glared at. He keeps holding it out for a long, awkward moment before letting it settle on top of Grim’s head. “You know, I wasn’t aware that anyone lived out here. There’s only the-“

 

“Stay on your side,” the man bites out. 

 

“O-kay.” Stiles mutters to his retreating back. He looks down at Grim. “Not very friendly is he.”

 

Grim just lets out a happy bark and pulls a bit on the leash after the man. “Yeah no. You already used up your one pissy human love on Jackson.” Stiles rolls his eyes. He tugs them both toward home. “That’s enough of a walk for you today.”

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my weird Stackson Season 1 re-write where everyone's ages are fucked. Holler at me on tumblr: @eastofoktober.


End file.
